Path to Paradise
by chezchuckles
Summary: A sequel to A Season in Hell. Castle is recovering from a gunshot wound intended for Beckett during Montgomery's funeral.
1. Chapter 1

**Path to Paradise**

a continuation of **A Season in Hell**

* * *

"The path to paradise begins in hell."  
-Dante Aligheri

* * *

 **X**

Rick Castle shifted slowly to his right side, the bedsheets hot and clinging while the air outside his covers was chilled with late autumn. He took a shallow breath, all he could summon this morning, and dragged his legs out of bed. He knuckled up, grunting as the effort stretched his misused and stiff muscle, and he managed to get to his feet.

There he swayed.

Stayed. Determined to stay. He would not collapse back to bed this morning.

He waited for the sensation to pass.

He had an informal schedule for today and he wanted to get started. The sooner the book was finished, the more time he had for this thing with Kate. This hazily-discussed but naturally easy partnership with the woman he loved.

He was chafing under these medical restrictions, and while he'd do it again, save her from a bullet, he wasn't enjoying himself these days. He was with it enough to want things, feeling good enough to resume his life, but he had absolutely no endurance.

He was falling asleep in his chair most nights: eight o'clock, to his eternal shame. Kate had let herself out more than once, a spare key to his place on the chain around her neck. She was a latchkey girlfriend.

Castle stumbled towards the bathroom, relieving himself with that same grunt of annoyance mixed with solace. At least this he could do on his own. At least this came easily again. He washed his hands, didn't bother to dry them as he fumbled with the settings on his shower.

Heated tile kept his toes warm in the cold morning. October had already brought record lows for the month, but social unrest and protests had only increased, calling his detective to the streets for extra manpower. He wasn't happy with his city these days, but honestly, Rick Castle wasn't happy with anything lately.

He hurt too much. And he had the uneasy sensation that the whole damn country was corrupt to its core. He watched the protests on television with relish, feeling like they all deserved it, they deserved to feel, up close and personal, the wound in the world.

He had been shot. Kate had been shot _at_ because of it.

And now they were counting on a stranger with a selfish streak to keep them safe from all that corruption and violence, safe from bullets marked with her name, and Castle just couldn't trust it.

He was waiting for the other shoe to drop, and that wasn't like him.

But weeks of agony and months of rehab and the lingering scars and stiff muscles and frozen shoulder had conspired to depress his natural easy-going manner. Nothing in his world was easy; life wasn't easy. Even for a millionaire.

And _that_ was depressing. Social justice was a crock, but all his money should buy him _something_.

He was the writer tag-along to an extraordinary police detective. If _he_ had no hope...

Castle sighed and stepped carefully into the shower, gripping one of the nozzles to keep his balance. The hot water scalded his face and chest, a welcome burn, and he closed his eyes and lifted his chin to it, wishing Kate was here.

Wishing he was allowed inside the Twelfth again. Wishing the new Captain hadn't called him a liability to the work of real detectives. Wishing he felt strong enough again that he didn't quietly agree with Gates. Wishing the pain meds didn't make him depressed. Wishing it was easier, all of it.

Mostly, he just wished Kate was here.

He really ought to be better than this. He ought to cheer up, get a brisk and invigorating shower, and then call his detective and see if he couldn't bring her by some coffee this morning. He wouldn't stay. He would just-

The door clicked as it opened. Cold air poured through, but he couldn't turn around fast enough. Arms twined around his torso, cold lips and cheeks pressed into his back. Naked woman warming herself against him. _Kate._

"You beat me to it." Her voice rode low, just under the thrum of water, and he lifted his hands to cover hers. She was here. "Thought I'd surprise you this morning."

"Surprised," he croaked, lacing his fingers with hers.

She hummed pleasantly, taking deep breaths so that he felt her chest expanding against his spine. "I see that. What has you up so early?"

"It's like this usually," he mumbled. Lame joke but she laughed anyway, brushed a very fast - very clever - hand over his _up_. He smiled into the water peppering his face, and turned his head slightly to see her. "Every morning since you said you loved me, I wake up like this."

Beckett buried a kiss at his shoulder blade. "What's wrong with me that I find that romantic?"

He chuckled and stroked her arm back to her elbow, tried to pull her around so he could see her face. She wouldn't come though, not at first, and he went still as she laid her lips against the scar at his back.

He waited through her moment of silence, the difficult and throat-closing respect she paid to an event he only sketchily remembered.

And then he tugged again and she came around with not a hint of sadness on her face, only the natural reserve of her faint smile. He ducked down and kissed her, a peck in deference to the blast of the shower in his face.

"Nothing wrong with you," he told her. "Not that I can see."

"Come back and do that again," she said, narrowing her eyes at him. "Do it right this time, Castle."

"Water's in my face-"

"Oh, poor baby. Now give me a kiss."

He grinned and cupped her jaw in his hands, leaned in to devastate her mouth.

If he didn't drown first.

 **X**

She fussed over him in the only way Beckett would ever fuss - sidelong looks, her presence not more than arm's length away. She didn't comment on the wince on his face or the strange way he held his arm, elbow bent, as he struggled to groom himself. Shaving would kill him, one of these days, and now he was nearly too exhausted to style his hair. Didn't help that he was watching her back, pleased to have her beside him, getting ready this morning.

She was wrapping her hair around her fist, and then she tied it off at the nape of her neck, a trick of feminine knowledge he couldn't quite follow, despite his paying attention.

She twirled her finger. "Eyes up front. You're going to poke an eye out with that thing."

"No," he grinned. "You took care of that in the shower."

Beckett's lips twitched, but she reached over and took the comb from his fingers, her touch erotic around his wrist and at his thumb. A circle, a swipe. Calling to mind recent memory. "That's not in question," she murmured, side by side with him at the bathroom vanity. "Your manscaping, however, leaves something to be desired."

He made a face, but she simpered at him in an unflattering manner, nudged his towel-clad hips back away from the sink. She was right though. It hurt to raise his arms above shoulder height.

"Here," she said, business-like again. She caught his wrist with one hand, as if to restrain him, and brought up his comb. She stroked his hair straight back, her eyes on the job, avoiding his gaze.

She was combing his hair.

He had suffered through drying off, brushing his teeth, even shaving his cheeks, jaws, and throat. All without her. She hadn't even hinted that it was troubling her to watch his painstaking effort.

She wasn't gentle now. She was efficient; she did it without flourish or style. And it was over in a moment.

But it was tender for all that. And styled completely wrong, but he didn't care.

"There," she said, putting the comb flat to the counter. "Better."

"Better," he gave, lips twitching at her.

She moved to escape, but he pinned her hips against the sink with his own, kept her there.

"Castle."

"Thank you," he said, barely sounds. He leaned in, inexorably pulled to her, closer, too close, until her lashes fluttered against his cheek as she reflexively closed her eyes.

He placed a light kiss over her eyelid.

Beckett's arms wound around his waist and curved up his spine. Her cheek pressed against his bare shoulder, and he felt her sigh.

"Better," she murmured. Like it was all she'd wanted when she had sneaked in his apartment this morning - to somehow help.

 **X**


	2. Chapter 2

**Path to Paradise**

* * *

 **X**

He made the coffee, batting her hands away when she tried to go for the easy stuff already percolated. "I have a French press," he grumbled, narrowing his eyes at her.

She surrendered, backing off, but she turned and went for the refrigerator, pulling fruit and cheese out of the crisper, evidently intent on doing her share this morning.

"Is Alexis having breakfast?"

"Not likely," he admitted with a wince. He hoped it appeared to Beckett like a general grimace rather than a specific indication of his daughter's unwillingness to intrude.

"Too bad," Beckett murmured, but it was a half-hearted attempt. Both of them would rather not have his daughter haunting a bar stool while they made love with half-hidden glances of their eyes. (Or so Castle liked to think of it. Beckett was less of a moony-eyed girl than most, but more of one than he had ever dreamed.)

"No body?" he asked, pouring water into the kettle.

"No. Now you've jinxed us, Castle." But she kissed his cheek as she passed, her hand at his ass for balance. 'Balance.' Right. She just liked touching his ass. He was wise to her ways.

"Don't you know that's how you break a jinx? You talk about the elephant in the room," he answered. "Now we'll be free and clear all morning."

Her phone rang.

Beckett groaned and slapped his shoulder, reached across the long surface of the bar to snag her phone - all so that she wouldn't have to step away from him.

Castle could appreciate the risk, and he reached out to steady her as she overextended. Beckett got the phone to her ear and answered with a breathlessness that sent Castle's eyebrows shooting up in a suggestive comment. She pinched the thin skin over his hip in retaliation, rolled her eyes.

"No, Esposito. We weren't having sex. Do you have a body drop or what?"

Castle laughed. She just elbowed him to get moving on the coffee.

He went back to work, grinding his fresh coffee beans himself, taking pleasure in the details - of both her one-sided conversation and the coffee as well.

When she had ended the call and simply stood there, staring into space, he waved a hand in front of her eyes and nudged her away from the fruit and paring knife. "Earth to Beckett."

She frowned. "Sorry. It's - Ryan. Ballistics came back on a slug from that murdered woman. The one I told you was found in concrete?"

"Ha, yes, sleeping with the fishes."

Kate's brow creased. "It was Ryan's service weapon."

For a moment, Castle's mind went blank. Ryan's _service weapon._ It made no sense. Ryan was the last person to shoot some-

"Tyson," he croaked, horror washing over him so completely that he swayed.

Beckett caught his hips, lifted her eyes to him. "It was the weapon Tyson took off Ryan, yes."

"Tyson killed this girl?"

"With a gun?" she said, shaking her head. "Why would he deviate from his m.o.?"

"He wouldn't," he said, his throat dry. He felt like he was convincing himself, convincing her. "He wouldn't."

"No. He wouldn't. He just wants us to know he's still out there."

Castle rasped a deep breath into his lungs, fists planted on the counter, but he felt the effort in his back, the scars tugging. His head bowed, but Beckett inserted herself right up against him, brought his chin up with her fingers.

Her eyes were serious, and very certain. "We'll figure this one out. We won't let it go down this way."

"Yeah," he got out, nodding rapidly. He felt he'd been made into a brittle shell, hollowed out by an unseen hand. "You will. You should go, Beckett. Boys will need you."

She cupped his face in her hands, very lightly, kissed his lips. "Not without you. We do this together, Castle. I want you in the bullpen where I can _see_ you."

"But Gates won't let me-"

"I don't care," she hissed. "You're coming with me. Now make us coffee to go."

 **X**

Jane Herzfeld was a cute blonde student. Had been. Had been a student. She'd been shot, dumped at a construction site. Workers had hooked her wrist with the leveling stick, freaked when they'd seen the body. After the police - including his detective - had gone out to the crime scene, Beckett had called him _there's a girl in the cement._

He'd made a joke. It had been an interesting twist. A mob hit, he'd said. And one more tangible effort Kate had been making to maintain their connection, to keep him involved even though he hadn't been allowed back at the Twelfth. He had gotten the feeling it was on the advice of her therapist. Which was fine, it was; it actually had helped. But now-

Ryan gave him a glance as he hurried into the bullpen. He met Beckett at the whiteboard, gave a doubletake seeing Castle in his usual spot by Beckett's desk.

"Hey, man," Ryan said, reaching out and squeezing Castle's shoulder. "How's physical therapy?"

"Sucks," he grimaced. "But it works. Allegedly." He got a disapproving look from Beckett, but there was a familiarity in it that was soothing.

"It works, definitely," Ryan nodded, failing right now in the small talk department. Understandably.

Castle braced his hands on his knees. "You know, Ryan, none of this is your fault. The fact that he used your gun doesn't make you complicit."

Ryan's nostrils flared, but his head ducked, not meeting Castle's eyes. "That weapon was issued to me by the city of New York. I let it out of my hand, and now a girl is dead. So please do not tell me that it's not my fault."

Castle couldn't find the words to say that might alleviate Ryan's sense of responsibility. Ameliorate the horror. He wasn't sure there were any.

Ryan cleared his throat and looked up at Beckett. "I'm going to start a canvass at Jane's apartment, have them show Tyson's photo around. And hopefully the room mate is back in town and I can talk to her."

Beckett nodded and Ryan turned on his heel, headed back for the elevator without another word. Castle sighed, rubbed his hand down his face. "He's not responsible for this. Any more than I am."

"You're not. But. It's a cop thing, Castle," she murmured. Her knee nudged his, the barest impression of warmth, and he glanced up at her.

She was trying to smile.

He made an effort too. "How's tonight look?" He kept his voice down. "Are you on Wall Street duty again?"

"No," she said shortly, waving her hand at the whiteboard. "Occupy protests have been bumped down on the priority list. This is too... damning."

She went quiet, giving him one of those entirely-rare helpless looks. She didn't usually show her vulnerable face in the precinct, even to him, unless they were truly alone. That she had come out with now, in the middle of the bullpen, spoke to a frustration that only therapy usually could tackle.

And he knew that, but it didn't stop him from trying. "After we get as far as we can tonight, let's go out for dinner. However late it is. All night buffet. Something. Unwind."

Beckett rubbed her forehead but turned her back to him, her eyes on the white board and all the wheels they were turning, all the items in transit, all the leads still open and not yet yielding results.

She looked grim. The weight of the world.

"Beckett," he said, pushing to his feet to stand at her side. "It will come. We won't let this get away. We'll solve this thing."

She gave a short huff and tapped the marker against her chin, her eyes churning with details, timeline, pieces of the puzzle not making a clear picture. "Of course we will," she said briskly. "But dinner will have to wait."

He knew she'd say that, but he'd had to try anyway.

Castle looked pointedly at his watch to garner her attention. "I have physical therapy in an hour, but I can be back after that with dinner. For everyone still here."

She frowned. "Tell me you aren't coming here straight after."

"I'm not?"

"Castle," she muttered. "Go home after, take a nap. You'll need it if you're going to stay up with us on this one."

 _If you're going to keep up with me._

It was true, but it still irked him. She was leaving him in the dust. It tasted like grit, but he swallowed it. "Fine. I'll probably pass out on the ride home anyway-"

"You said you wouldn't." Her eyes snapped to his, her body orienting to his in an instant.

Castle gripped her elbow as if that would stem the flood of horror rising up in her eyes. "No, not riding the subway, just the car service. I told you I wouldn't, and I'm not. Especially not if Tyson's around."

Beckett released her breath, and he could see her forcing herself to relax again, to smooth over her face, to wipe clean any trace of that edgy anxiety she still had over his safety.

And he had no idea what to do about it. What could he do? He was a man who still needed a nap after a physical therapy appointment.

"Go," she murmured, reaching out to squeeze two of his fingers. A grip that felt like love. "Be safe."

"I'm going," he said quietly, curling his fingers into a fist to squeeze her back. As subtly as they could be. Gates really didn't like him, and even now he could see the woman eyeing him from her office window. At any moment, she'd be out here to hurry him on his way, pointed remarks.

He stepped away from Beckett and took his coat from the back of his chair, debated whether or not to struggle with putting it on. With an irritated sigh, he decided against it, turned to leave.

Beckett stopped him, her hand falling to the coat thrown over his arm. "You know they're predicting snow?"

He blinked, stilled by the force of her _quiet_. "Snow."

Beckett lifted her head, cutting her eyes once to Gates in her office. Her lips turned down but she looked back at him, as if resolutely. "I'll ride down with you, Castle."

She was going to make him put on his coat. Or _help_ him put on his coat in the stupid elevator. He knew her; he could read it in her eyes.

Castle's lips quirked. "What's wrong with me that I find that romantic?" he murmured.

Beckett actually laughed - short-lived and wry - but it was a laugh.

He counted it as a win, and conceded to being dressed in the elevator.

 **X**


	3. Chapter 3

**Path to Paradise**

* * *

 **X**

Castle rubbed the back of his neck as he watched from the break room, realized what he was doing only after Beckett's fingers touched his spine. He dropped his arm, but he didn't look at her, choosing to watch Ben Lee shake Ryan's hand.

"He's lost a lot," she said quietly. They'd deserted the bullpen to give Ryan a chance to talk to Ben alone. The kid would be going into Witness Protection, leaving everything. "He'll have to testify against his brother too. If he wants to keep his protection."

"Cast off from his family, the only things he's known. Wonder how long his convictions will last." Castle sighed, sinking into the counter and staring down at his coffee cup. The dainty white one from the set he had ordered along with the machine back... so long ago now. Another existence.

He reached out and took it by the thin, breakable handle, and he tossed the cold contents into the sink.

Beckett came up to him at the counter and bumped his shoulder. "They'll last. He was in love with her. He's young - I know. But his family murdered his _hope_ , Castle, his dreams for the future." She took the cup from his fingers and laid it in the sink, handed him her clean blue mug. "You of all people. When did we switch roles?" Her arm pressed against his. "You're usually the optimistic one."

He gave her a wry look. "No closer to Tyson. For all this."

Her brow furrowed. "We both agreed that it wasn't worth trading Jane Herzfeld's justice for a dubious location no doubt planted-"

"No, I know," he said quickly, cradling her blue mug. His hands were going through the motions without thinking, soothing and rhythmic, the perfect cup of coffee. "It's still not worth it. But it's a nasty reminder that there are people out there plotting our downfall. Faceless men." Tyson. The sniper. Even this Mr. Smith couldn't really be trusted.

Beckett didn't answer, and he let the noises of the espresso machine keep him from opening his mouth again. When it was done, the espresso shot was dwarfed by her NYPD mug, but he turned and pressed it into her hand anyway. His shoulders were stiff.

Beckett's fingers curled around the coffee, but she also touched his forearm, her eyes serious on his. "Castle." She hesitated, bringing the mug against her chest.

He realized suddenly that they were standing too close, that the blinds were open to the bullpen and Gates's office. He took a step back, but her fingers tightened on his arm and she came half a step with him, preventing his retreat.

"Castle, I don't want this to sound... patronizing. But-" Her eyes studied his.

"But?" he asked, utterly at a loss.

"How's the pain?" she murmured finally.

The shrapnel still lodged in his back, the scars. Healing was one long path of pain. "Yeah," he admitted. "It might be that." And more. More he'd not told her, because she had her own issues, her _job_ , the sniper, and he had only this one thing. Get better. "It's - constant. Makes me a little bitter, I suppose." Deflection, deflection.

She let out a tight breath and nodded, chin tilting. She was buying it, but she wasn't swallowing it. Her posture was defensive in that Beckett way, rigid and unyielding. It usually made him hot for her, but he found it pulsed between his shoulder blades like tension.

She was going to ask. She was going to find out.

She traced her finger over the rim of the mug. "Have you taken any?" A breath. "The pills."

There was a silence and a terror that opened up in him like a black hole. His palms began to sweat; his heart pounded. She knew. He didn't know how, but she already knew.

"I don't have any left," he admitted.

Beckett's eyes snapped back to his.

He felt the tremor in his hands and suppressed it, but he didn't do her the dishonor of looking away. "I ran out last - two weeks ago." He had almost lied.

"Castle."

His head bobbed. "I know."

They both just breathed, existing in this gaping moment of brutal honesty. (The pain pills were gone; he'd run through them unthinkingly, not paying attention, one after another. He had no refills. He shouldn't ask for a refill. He was purposefully not thinking about wanting a refill. Craving a refill.)

Her lips twisted. She dumped the mug in the sink and grabbed his hand, tugged him towards the door. "Out." Her voice was cracked. "We're getting out of here. We need out of here."

"It's not because of you," he said urgently.

She didn't look at him.

"It's not being at the precinct either," he promised. "I can handle it. I'm handling it, Beckett."

"We're getting out of here," she said again, already striding towards her desk. Ryan startled, Esposito giving them a severe look as they huddled around Ben Lee. Castle swallowed down the thick, terrible relief in his throat - relief and shame - but he reached past Beckett for her coat, took it from her fingers.

"Let me," he murmured.

She gave him a piercing look, but her eyes darted next to the boys, and she nodded, allowing him at least this. Castle held up her coat, gritting his teeth through the effort of will it took just to keep his arms steady. He could swear the bullet fragment was grinding into his bones.

"We're leaving you guys the paperwork," Beckett told Ryan. "Make sure the US Marshall brings the request form already signed-"

"We got it covered," Esposito said. His eyes were studying Castle. Could the detective see? Just how much it cost Castle to stand still, to stand at all.

"Yeah, you guys get out of here," Ryan said eagerly. "And thanks, Castle. Don't know that we would have gotten here without you."

"It was good to be back." He gave Kevin a deep smile in response; he could tell by the ease in Beckett's shoulders that it looked like his usual. Esposito was put off the scent as well, and he even shook Castle's hand, which tugged so vitally at his back that he felt the spikes sink into his spine.

"Let's go, Rick," she was saying. Much more touching, and an urgency in her voice that made Esposito's head pick up.

Castle followed her beautiful cashmere camel coat through the bullpen and down to the elevator with his own coat over _her_ arm. She had her bag in one hand and as she punched the call button, Castle reached out and took the leather satchel from her.

"No, I can-"

"I got it, Kate," he asked. _Please._

She heard it and pressed her lips together, and they waited there for the elevator.

The door finally slid open and she stepped on, put her hand up to the doors to keep them from catching him. He was slow-moving tonight, and he knew it now. It must have crept up on him all day. He eased back against the rail and she let the doors go, jabbing at the button for the basement level.

"The car?" he frowned.

"You're in pain."

"It's not pain," he said quickly. Stopped.

Her eyebrows rose, pointedly.

"At least, I didn't think it was. It's not _just_ the pain," he grumbled.

"Withdrawal?" she said tightly. Her breath whistled in her teeth and he clenched a fist.

But that hurt. "I assumed as much."

"Rick." The elevator dinged and the doors slid open.

He gave her a brief shake of his head and she dropped it, moving instead to get off the elevator. He followed, making a fist with one hand to focus on something other than the terrible ache in his shoulders.

Now that he was paying attention, he hurt very badly.

 **X**


	4. Chapter 4

**Path to Paradise**

* * *

 **X**

Castle had refused the coat again once they'd arrived at her apartment, but it wasn't because he was trying to shrug her off. He just really hadn't thought he could do it.

Now he sat delicately on her couch, upright only because he didn't know how to collapse without crashing into things. He had no idea how long he'd been sitting there, eyes closed, trying to breathe through the remnants of something that was either his own stupidity or his own heroism (they seemed one and the same these days), when he realized Beckett had disappeared a while ago.

He opened his eyes. Her living room was empty. He'd assumed they would have dinner here and then he'd take a cab back to his loft. They tried to trade off dinners, but he had to be home for morning send-off.

Maybe he should go? No. No, he smelled something now, something on the stove. He couldn't bear to turn and look; he made a game out of guessing, sniffing the air delicately, distracting himself with the rumble in his stomach.

And then Beckett came out of her bedroom dressed in leggings and an oversized plaid-

 _His_ plaid shirt. "I wondered what had happened to that," he said, narrowing an eye. Wincing. Admit it; he was wincing.

Her hands came to his shoulders, her body suddenly close, standing between his knees. "You should lie down, Rick. The bed?"

"I'll fall asleep. Won't be able to get up."

"I - texted Alexis," she said. "If you want?"

Castle's head jerked up to meet her eyes, but it really hurt. She caught his shoulders, cradled the back of his neck even as she sank to the couch beside him.

"You're scaring me," she said.

He closed his eyes. "It's not - that bad."

"You need pain medication-"

"I can't."

"Castle."

"I _can't_." He tried to extricate himself from her support, but he found he couldn't. Couldn't move. Couldn't make his muscles work. "You all of people should understand. I can't."

Her face was blanched, eyes grim. "Your pain management specialist is a charlatan," she hissed. "We're getting you someone new. This is not acceptable, Castle."

"This..." He took a breath. "Is a rough spot, I'll admit. But I was doing fine a few weeks ago-"

"When you were over-medicating?"

He frowned into his lap, watched his fingers close into another fist. What was the poem about the fist?

" _'How do you know if you are going to die?'_ "

Beckett made a strangled noise and slid suddenly into his lap, bracing his head in her hands, holding him to her. "Castle-"

"No, I-" He tried to hush the grief that poured out of her, his words slowed by the obstacle of his chronic pain. "I was quoting something. Kate, it's not - not that. I was quoting that Nye poem, _Making a Fist_."

"What are you talking about?" she said, intent, intense, her whole being focused on him.

"The little kid with the stomach ache in the back of the car, the sickening swirl of trees outside the window," he tried recreating. He closed his eyes a moment to see the lines before him on the page. " _'How do you know if you are going to die?' I begged my mother... 'When you can no longer make a fist.'_ "

"I don't know what that is," she whispered.

He tried to smile, finding it helplessly funny. "The last stanza is _I who did not die, who am still living, still lying in the backseat behind all my questions, clenching and opening one small hand._ "

Her face changed, her body eased, sinking back to his knees. She released his face and instead caressed down his arms, wrapping her fingers at his elbows. She held his fist in her hands, and he released his fingers, closed them again, rhythmically. Her smile was soft. "Okay."

"A poem, Beckett." He caught her thigh and rubbed over the tension still evident in her muscle. "Just a poem that I was remembering."

"About not dying."

"About being helpless to the questions," he sighed. "I didn't mean to take all the pain pills in that little bottle. I just took them when it hurt - that's what the nurse said to do."

"She didn't," Beckett frowned.

He shrugged, and it hurt, and he had to work to get his shoulders down from his ears. "Well, that's what I heard. It wasn't on purpose. I just opened the bottle one morning and realized I'd taken the last three during the night."

" _Three_?"

He opened his mouth, closed it.

She furrowed her brow. "I thought your mother was keeping track?"

"I'm a big boy, Kate." There was no way his mother could have actually kept up any better. Probably worse. "My mistake. I'll suffer the consequences."

Her fingers came to his cheek, a strange gesture from his normally reserved detective. "I don't understand how this happened. I thought..." She sighed and touched her thumb to his bottom lip. "I told Alexis you're staying the night with me because the case went long. So we have that... I don't know how we got here."

"You drove."

She huffed, curled her hand at the nape of his neck as she leaned into him. Her kiss was too soft at his cheek. She felt more fragile than he'd known it was possible for her to be. And not at all tall, not like this, hunched in his lap.

"It's really okay," he promised. "I'll work through it. I shouldn't have been such a baby about the physical therapy, should've just manned up, suffered through. You'd have been so much more badass than me about all this."

Her head lifted. Her eyes chased across his face. "No," she murmured. "No, I'd have been - a terrible girlfriend." She cupped his jaw and tilted in, kissed him so softly that he thought he might cry. "If I would have even made it that far."

She might not have made it. "You might have died," he croaked.

She laughed, and it surprised him enough to open his eyes. She was shaking her head and swiping at her cheek - was she crying? "I meant I might not have made it to us, Castle. I'm not a good patient."

"Obviously, neither am I."

"We'll work on it," she murmured, her hands on his shoulders. "Let me feed you - both of us - and then you can lie down on the bed and I can work on your back. How does that sound?"

"You can work on my front too, Kate Beckett." Eyebrows and leer and everything.

She only smirked right back.

 **X**


	5. Chapter 5

**Path to Paradise**

* * *

 **X**

Kate Beckett was catapulted from sleep to the shock of dark hours and the confusion of noise.

She rolled over to regain some orientation, but she recoiled in shock, her shirt damp from the soaked sheets. She had to struggle with blankets before she could sit upright, and she automatically flipped on the light.

She'd forgotten Castle was here. He groaned and turned away from the light, his back to her.

"Oh, God," she croaked, sleep-battered. She reached for his shoulder. "You're soaked in sweat, Castle."

He shouted, arm flinging outward, and she caught him by the elbow, brought his hand against her chest. He'd been asleep - nightmare? - and now he seemed to be coming back to her, waking again.

Castle cursed under his breath as his eyes opened to bright light, and she reached immediately to snap it off. The room plunged into darkness, and she was night blind, but Castle let out a breath of murmured gratitude.

"You were having a dream," she said, blinking rapidly to try to find him. She felt the bed shift and his hand untangled from hers. He was getting out of bed. "Are you okay?"

"I'm okay," he said roughly. His voice carried the hard edges of a nightmare. "Didn't mean to wake you."

"It's all right," she said.

He was sitting forward on the edge of the bed as if he had to gather his strength. Or his wits.

"Have you been having dreams every night?" He never stayed with her. She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept over at his place either; they tried not to do that. _She_ tried not to do that. She tried to give him space, let him be wounded and uncomfortable in peace. It'd been her experience that concern was often overbearing. "Castle. Do you-?"

"Some nights, Kate," he said shortly, striding forward. Overbearing, like she'd thought. Only he was heading straight for-

"Castle," she bit out, too late a warning as he stumbled into the armoire. "We're at my place."

He grunted and shifted directions, heading for her bathroom. Not his bedroom, not his familiar surroundings. Nightmares came often in unknown beds.

While he went to the bathroom, she shifted to her own side and flipped back the covers, ran her hand over the mattress.

Soaked in sweat. There was an actual damp spot where his body had been, and his pillow was drenched. Nightmares and... withdrawal symptoms?

They had carefully not talked about it. She didn't know _how_ to have that conversation with him, how to ask for details he didn't want to give. When had she ever had to work at getting Castle to talk? She wasn't well-versed in interrogating him; he always offered everything right up.

But did he really?

Honestly, she wasn't sure now if he _did._

Kate slipped out of bed and stripped off the sheets, piling the covers on the floor as she worked quickly. She was wary of addictive behavior, entirely skittish after dealing with her father's alcoholism, and she didn't want her own issues to blow this out of proportion.

Prescription abuse was one thing, drug addiction was entirely another.

 **X**

Kate sank to the arm of the chair and pressed her palms to her knees, breathing hard. Her therapist said nothing, as if he was giving her privacy for her little breakdown, but Beckett had long since resolved herself to having a witness to her brokenness.

Dr. Clark cleared his throat and rubbed two fingers at his eyebrow, his posture at ease, cognitive. He reminded her of the captain of a starship, complete control, never ruffled, forging ahead with his Prime Directive: thou shalt not interfere with a lesser species' emotional development. Hers, of course.

"Kate?" he queried, a calm assurance in her name that brought her head up. "Do you need me to go through the symptoms of drug addiction or do-"

"No," she cut him off. "No, I know."

"You know," he repeated. "But do you believe?" He had the tendency to rephrase her statements in ways that left her reeling. _I never intended to say that_.

"I trust him," she clipped. Voice hard.

"I didn't ask if you trusted him." A tint of interest, and he jotted a note down that had her bristling.

"I _trust_ him," she hissed, jerking up from the arm of the chair to pace. "He's not addicted. He used up his prescription, and he's in chronic pain that won't-" She had to stop and swallow hard. "I just didn't know it was happening. He didn't tell me."

"And that bothers you."

" _Yes_ , it bothers me."

"Did you tell him that?"

"No." She stopped before the window, glanced down to the street below. Shied away at the flare of sunlight on glass. She knew she was doing it, but she couldn't stop. "No, he already looked so miserable about it. I've added enough heartache."

"You?"

Beckett turned, surprised at first to hear the accusation in his voice. And then she recalled what she'd said, unthinkingly, and she sighed, rubbing a thumb at her sternum where her heart ached. Therapy. "Me, I - no, I know it's not my fault he was shot. I didn't pull the trigger."

"It will be the work of a lifetime if I convince you of that."

She allowed the wry amusement to slide across her lips, and she sank back down to the armchair. "He's not addicted, but he feels he's too close to the line." Her fingers picked at the weave of fabric. "He thinks... it could happen to him. I don't-" She turned her head, closing her eyes on the thought that had swum unbidden to her lips.

"Please finish your sentence, Kate."

Her lips twisted. "I don't think I can do it. With him. If he - falls over the line. I don't think I have it in me to save him."

"Because of your father."

She buried her face in her hands, hunched over her knees, trying to breathe.

"Kate-"

"No," she choked out. "No, don't." She fought for control, using the silence to count, focusing on the upward climb of numbers instead of the horror lurking in her thoughts.

When she finally had her breathing back, Beckett curled her hands into fists and lifted her head. Another slow breath and she could straighten up again.

Dr Clark sat waiting patiently, hands folded in his lap. He had not made notes this time. "You have a very interesting and tangled Messiah complex, Kate. It's quite a web. You saved your father's life. You and you alone. Single-handedly. Swooped in and forced a grown man who is also your parent to-"

"Alright," she gritted out, nostrils flaring.

Dr Clark lifted an eyebrow. "Please finish the thought, Kate."

She _hated_ him sometimes. "Alright, I get it. I'm not - superman."

"And who has responsibility for his actions?"

"I'm only in control of me," she gave up.

"I see you've memorized my stock responses." Another lifted eyebrow and this time a quirk of his lips. "Should I have them copyrighted?"

"Then this would be even more expensive," she shot back.

He chuckled and leaned forward, an elbow on the arm of the chair, still entirely at ease. "Let's take your hypothetical out to its logical conclusion, shall we?"

"Can we not?" she muttered. He always did this, made her see her crazy. Which was probably the point.

"Rick refills his prescription and takes them like candy in an honest attempt to dull his chronic pain. What then, Kate?"

She clenched her jaw.

"What happens to Rick, to you, to your relationship? To his daughter and his mother?"

"I... don't know."

"Why don't you know? You seem to know what you _can't_ do if it happens, so what is it that's happening?"

"He'd be - addicted. Like my dad, he would become a different person. He wouldn't be Castle, he won't be the man who... loves me."

"I see."

"Really?" she snapped. "Because I don't."

"Except I think you really do," Dr Clark said gently. "You spoke the words out loud, and now you're angry I've forced you into giving them a voice. Your deepest fears. He won't love you."

She gripped the arms of the chair and squirmed, avoiding his gaze. Watching the sky past the window.

"I don't suggest," Dr Clark said easily, "that you stay in a romantic relationship with a man sunk in addiction. But I don't believe that's what's going on here."

"He's not addicted," she muttered. She knew he wasn't that far gone. He had looked ashamed, miserable; he had looked like a man struggling. Her father had just looked _gone._ No longer with her. No longer caring about what happened to him, or to her.

"No, he's not addicted. And he does love you." Dr Clark gestured to the chair beside her. "He said it in this very room, sitting right beside you. But you don't need my reassurances."

 _I need his._ She needed Castle. End of story.

"I should talk to him," she sighed, sinking back in the chair. "We need to talk."

When she opened her eyes, Dr Clark looked so very pleased.

 **X**


	6. Chapter 6

**Path to Paradise**

* * *

 **X**

Her hands were shaking.

Kate crossed her arms and stood very still before the loft's gorgeous windows, absorbing what little light remained of the day. She had bailed on the active case after her therapy session; she had simply not returned to the precinct.

She hadn't even called them. She never not called.

Kate had expected to find Castle at home, but he hadn't answered. Her text had received a short reply, _on my way_ , and she'd let herself in with the key he'd given her when she had driven him home from the hospital that first day. (He had patently not allowed her to give it back: _what if I fall in the shower and I need you to come get me up?_ Big leer, _get me up, get it?,_ drugged-goofy smile, and she had leaned in over him and softly kissed his mouth and agreed.)

With her arms crossed, at least she was managing to hold herself together.

They had to talk, get this clear. She didn't know how to be _good_ for him in this, and that scared her. She didn't know where to start, and she wasn't sure that Castle did either, and already she was in too deep - deep enough to drown. Deep enough that a year or two of therapy wasn't going to make a dent in the damage if they crashed and burned now.

Afraid, afraid, afraid.

Everywhere she turned, she was afraid. There was a sniper out there who had her number, hired by a Dragon they had no _name_ for, and the only thing standing between them and death was a man with a file she didn't even know the contents of. A man who had threatened them in Castle's hospital room.

That wasn't a fear she lived with easily. It had a slick, oily cast to it. A new and terrible dimension rooted in a very real and vivid trauma.

Losing him.

Losing him to this. To any of this - the tragedy that followed her. To pain pills, to not knowing, to her own emotional ignorance, to being unable to help, to falling down a black hole. Losing him to something so humiliatingly earth-bound. How banal and awful and not fair after everything they'd overcome, for them to fall apart because he loved her so much he'd taken a bullet for her.

 _Afraid, afraid, afraid._

The key scraping the lock had her startling from her death spiral, and she pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes, trying to get a handle on herself. Dr Clark had been so calmly assured that she could do this, she could talk to him, and now she mentally rehearsed the salient points she had to make.

Salient points wouldn't come to mind right now. All she had was: _I need you. Please, don't do this._

She sounded pathetic even in her own head.

The door came open and Castle stepped inside, his eyes lighting up, his body somehow filling the void. The darkness vanished, swallowed up by the beam of his smile at seeing her in his loft.

"Beckett." He shut the door after him, flipping the lock without looking, his eyes only on her.

She found an easier breath, and her mouth loosened enough to smile, close-lipped though it was. "Welcome home."

He made it across the threshold and into the living room, and she came the rest of the way, her movements less graceful than she would have liked.

He palmed her shoulders, a brush of a kiss across her lips. "You're playing hooky?"

"I thought we could talk," she answered, smoothing her fingers down his tie before she stepped back. "I came from therapy."

"Good session? How's Dr Clark - still as deadpan as ever?"

"Good, yeah, he's the same," she smiled, shaking her head. Trying not to get distracted by his smalltalk, by how easy it would be to gloss over what had happened and pretend nothing was wrong.

"Did you eat lunch?" he asked, still plowing through, loosening his tie and folding his expensive jacket over the end of the couch. "I have pasta salad from last night, and we can make up some croque monsieur."

How stupidly she loved him in this moment, watching him unbutton his cuffs a little clumsily, hearing him use a fancy name for a melted ham and cheese sandwich.

"Yeah, I forgot lunch," she admitted, following him into the kitchen. Clark had fit her into an emergency session at eleven, the only time available, and she had basically taken a half-day from the precinct. Hinted it was for Castle, some appointment he had that she had wanted to be at. But maybe he actually had been at an appointment. "Where were you?"

"Out and about. It's a beautiful day. October is my favorite time in the city. The crisp air, the leaves changing, the sky still so blue. Halloween." His eyebrows wriggled. "Well, except perhaps Christmas holiday season, which - oh, Beckett - we are going to do it up right. Lights, decorations, a massive six foot tree. And ice skating-"

He came to a comical stop, abruptly about-facing and staring at her.

She quirked an eyebrow in question, though her hands were back to shaking again.

He swiped a hand down his face. "Christmas. We haven't really talked about Christmas. With your mom - I mean, that's a special memory, I get it. I don't want to infringe or seem like I'm trying to overwrite-"

"No, no, Castle," she murmured. Though her mouth was dry just thinking about Christmas. _Christmas._ She couldn't even begin to untangle that one. Therapy was going to get expensive; she should just go ahead and slot appointments twice a week with Clark during the holidays. "So you were just walking around?"

He was pulling leftovers from the fridge as he answered. "Well, trying to walk around. My physical therapist said I needed to increase my endurance. And the acupuncturist said the same - and usually they never agree. So I thought it would behoove me to follow their not-so-mild suggestions." Castle batted her hand away as she tried to help. "I got this. Sit, Kate. You wanted to talk?"

She let out a breath and slunk around the granite counter to the bar. She stood there a moment, observing his movements, the stiffness in his shoulders and the set of his jaw as he doggedly went about preparing a late - extremely late - lunch. His shoulders were lopsided, she realized. Crooked. Like he was holding one up near his ear. She wondered if he knew he was doing that.

"Did you not eat lunch either?" she tried.

"No," he said.

Nausea? she thought fearfully, and banished it.

And then brought it back. _Talk to him._ "Were you - feeling bad?"

"Yes," he answered, and then she was given a helpless look over his shoulder. A kind of _I don't want to do this._ But she didn't know if the _this_ was talking, or if the _this_ was _to you._

"Castle," she started, and his face went bleak and she had to sit down.

She had to take a moment, gather her courage. This wasn't about her, it was about him. Get him help. If he needed help - of course he needed help even if it wasn't NA help, just _help_.

And not from over here, with a counter between them. Not with him suffering through just to prove something to her that didn't need proving. Beckett got to her feet again and came around, touched his back, low on his spine, for his attention.

"Almost ready. But you could dish out the pasta if you're famished," he said quickly, cheerful smile. The thing about Castle was that the smile wasn't false. He was trying so hard that it was real to him, even if it was forced. "The skillet is heating up, the sandwiches will be ready in moments - I've got cheese here and the ham was from the market-"

"Babe," she said softly, taking his busy hands in hers. "Listen to me for a second. This is serious."

He went still, his throat working, his eyes avoiding hers.

She was afraid, but so was he _._ How had she missed it?

Beckett released his hands only to slide her arms around him, stepping into his space and embracing him. In her heels, their cheeks brushed, her leg slotting between his, hips bumping. She carefully curled her hand at the back of his neck and stroked the soft skin under his collar. Warm skin. He smelled like wind and leaves.

Castle shuddered and clutched at her, hands massive on her shoulders, a wild beast she was trying to tame.

"Are you in pain right now?" she started quietly.

"I - yes."

"How bad - use the pain scale. How bad is it?"

"It's all relative," he grumbled. His voice cracked at the end.

"Don't compare yourself to other people. Just for you, Rick. Everything you've gone through, the healing and physical therapy and all of it. Right now, standing here. Tell me."

"It's six or seven," he mumbled, turning his face into her neck. She stroked at his skin, skirting his spine and slipping farther down his back, trying to reconcile herself to a pain that was _six or seven_ and he'd not said anything to her. He seemed to curl in around her. "It's not - it's worse on PT days. I haven't been doing the exercises at home because they hurt, and that's my fault-"

"No, hush," she whispered. "It's not your _fault_. It's completely understandable. It should _not_ be a six or seven. We're going to get help, Castle. There's supposed to be a management schedule, a specialist. Drugs that _work,_ that you don't have to pop like candy just for relief."

He gripped her shoulder, his other hand dropping to her ribs as if he could wrestle comfort out of her body. She hoped he could.

"Will you talk to me?" she whispered.

"I... am I not?"

"You're kind of just hanging on here."

He gave a weary laugh, but his grip eased. "You're right. You're talking to me and I'm standing here. I'll do anything you want, Kate. Anything you think is necessary. You just tell me. I'll do it. Just-"

 _Just don't leave._

She heard it so clearly in the desperation in his voice that it squeezed her heart. This was all so new, so fragile to them both, and it was such work. It was always such work to make herself be the kind of person who could let herself be vulnerable in those grief-filled places like Christmas or absentee fathers or unsolved homicides. And if he thought it was work too, what kind of job was she doing on her end?

"Castle, I'm _trying_ ," she heard herself say. Heard the helplessness in her own voice echoing the desperation in his. God, they were pathetic. "I'm trying, I went to therapy, I keep going to therapy, doing what he says to do, doing the work, and I swear I'm trying."

"But?" His hands dropped from her and he stepped away - as if forcing himself to.

"But I just keep messing this up," she admitted, feeling cast adrift in the middle of his kitchen. "I'm dropping the ball when it comes to you. To loving you. And I don't even know where."

"What?" he blurted out. His head had jerked up, his startled eyes catching hers. He rubbed both hands down his face, as if he couldn't believe what was right in front of him. "Kate. No. You're not. You're not dropping the ball. You love me. I'm so damn grateful that even though I'm - this is not the best timing, and being shot and healing is a rocky way to start out. I haven't been myself and yet here you are."

Her mouth opened, but the words were entirely gone. And _yet here you are_? Where did he think she'd be? She was the one messed up, fighting a vicious self-destructive urge just to remain standing in one place with him - and yet here _he_ was. Wounded for her and still here.

"I could say the same of you," she sighed, and turned her head, a break from his searching gaze and all the recriminations his eager relief spelled out for her. "Why are you still here?" She bit the inside of her cheek at just how terribly desperate even _that_ sounded, and she closed her eyes.

Castle let out a derisive snort. "Beckett, the self-deprecation isn't attractive. On either of us. Honestly, I'm not built for anything less than total arrogance, so can we dispense with the pitiful and disgracing lack of self-confidence when it comes to each other?"

Kate giggled, slapped a hand over her mouth as it came out. A little horrified.

His lips twitched, though she saw the faint tracing of pain in the corners of his mouth.

She leaned in and very lightly kissed him. "You're right. I love your arrogant jack-assery."

"Did I _say_ jackass?" he gasped. "I do not recall using such a term. I think I've been insulted."

She laughed again (oh, it was giggling, really), and she drew her arms down between them, playing with the loose edges of his tie. "I do love you, Castle."

"I know. I do know. I think sometimes it astonishes me still. That we're here. We made it. Same page. And no, Kate, I'm not astonished that you love me, of course you love me. How could you not?"

She smirked and rewarded his confidence with another light kiss, lingering at the corner of his mouth where the pain haunted. "How could I not?" she echoed softly.

"Love at first sight."

"In your dreams, babe."

 **X**


	7. Chapter 7

**Path to Paradise**

* * *

 **X**

Beckett rubbed the tips of her fingers over the arm of the waiting room chair, nicely appointed (of course, for the price of the doctor's office visit, it should be). Everything in here was nicely appointed, the furnishings tasteful and yet modern, the magazines a complimentary fan ranging from _Martha Stewart Living_ to _GQ_. Plush furniture, deep-pile carpet that muffled all sound, the waiting room so vast she could fit her whole apartment inside.

But she was completely uncomfortable, the decor unable to ease her mind.

Beckett had watched Castle disappear behind that patient door almost twenty minutes ago, and she wished fiercely that she had bullied her way back with him.

Comprehensive Pain Specialists of New York had a reputation unsurpassed. Online reviews were glowing, and her father's law office had even used them numerous times for some of their highest-paying clients. Castle was in very good hands. She believed that whole-heartedly.

Still she wanted to sit right there beside him and hear it herself from the doctor's own mouth. Or was it the physician's assistant? Whomever it was that was seeing him now.

Her phone vibrated in her lap and Beckett glanced to the screen, dismissing the alert despite the open case at the Twelfth. Art gallery and a too-smooth insurance claims investigator made for a nice story to tell Castle when he had whined about being left out of things, but she currently couldn't find it in her to _care_.

That had never happened to her before.

She would be mildly concerned but for the-

"Mrs Castle?"

Beckett jerked her head towards the secretary standing at the front desk, surprised by the name, even more surprised that she found herself answering to it. She sat forward, gathering her phone into a fist, ready to go. "Yes?"

"Mr Castle would like for you to sit in, if you're willing-"

"I'm willing," she said, shooting to her feet so fast the secretary leaning over her desk actually stepped back.

Kate didn't bother explaining her non-Mrs status, she merely walked quickly towards the massive grey desk and waited for whatever happened next.

The patient door opened just as the secretary gestured towards it, and a clinic nurse was waiting there with a smile. "Mrs Castle? Come on back. I think your husband is afraid it's too much information for him to keep straight."

"It's Beckett. He's my partner," she murmured, knowing it didn't quite explain, but all the explanation she could muster.

The nurse seemed not to even hear her, simply led Beckett down a hall off of which were many doors, doors upon doors, and Castle behind one of them. Charts hung to one side of each doorway, nestled into sleek chrome holders mounted on soothing grey walls, and she thought she could hear a doctor and patient talking in normal tones somewhere down the hall.

The farther into the maze they got, the more she recognized that voice as his voice, Castle, and then the nurse was opening the door. Beckett saw first the woman in her tailored white lab coat, her hair piled on top of her head in a way that suggested a night out at the best restaurant before being called to her job - even though it was eight in the morning. The dress, though, was knockout, and Beckett was momentarily discombobulated.

But Castle was sitting on a leather exam chair - dentist-like, though far more tasteful and expensive than that description allowed for. He held a sheaf of papers in one hand and a deer-in-the-headlights look in his eyes. When he turned his head at the open door, relief spilled through his face so quickly that Beckett jerked forward, called to his side by his need.

She touched the back of his neck where his skin was warm and the hair had begun to grow long, a moment to soothe them both, and then she turned to the doctor. The exam room door was closed once more, leaving just the three of them, and the woman had stood to shake Beckett's hand.

The dress was amazing, really, and why was she wearing such a nice dress to work in a clinic?

"I'm Karen Foster, a PA with the CPS Group. You're-"

"Detective Kate Beckett," she interrupted, wanting to make it clear now that she'd been allowed back. "Rick is my partner."

"Ah," Foster said, though she looked between them as if she wasn't at all elucidated. "I see."

"He took a bullet for me," Beckett clipped. And then grunted softly as she realized how defensive she was - and for no good reason.

Foster snapped her fingers. "Right, _partners_. Rick, I thought you said it was a funeral?"

"It was," he said, nodding his head only to wince at the movement.

"My late Captain's funeral." Beckett sank down to a chair beside Castle's exam chair, crossed her legs slowly in an attempt to regain some of her self-possession. "He has a fragment in his trapezius muscle, on this side." She touched the spot at his back, her eyes meeting his for a moment. It solidified her resolve. "He jumped in front and took me down. Bullet went in his back. He was in surgery for hours."

And no, her voice was not shaking.

"Well, I've given Rick a whole slew of information in that packet about our treatment options. Everything from acupuncture to electrical stimulation to aquatic therapy. We have a wide-range of services and we _will_ find something that works. He's been very honest with me about where his pain levels have been, what he's been doing to combat it." Ms Foster was pleasant as she regarded them equally. "He asked to have you back here with him because it's a lot of information at once and he said you would be his main care-giver."

That was a spur in Beckett's side and it made her sit up straighter, though she glanced apprehensively to Castle. _Your mother?_ she mouthed and he shook his head very briefly _no._

"I'll go over again what our plan is for you, Rick, and Kate - Detective - please feel free to ask questions. It's often complicated at first, knowing what's right, and with a history of abuse-"

"He doesn't have a history," Beckett bit out. "I do. I mean - my family. And I think he's overreacting because _I_ am, but-"

"He's not overreacting," Foster said calmly. Her smile was still plainly in place, bland and confident. "Let me be clear, so that both of you are clear. His dosage was inappropriate because he gave misleading information to the hospital team who discharged him, thus giving him access to quantities of opiates he wasn't responsible about. These are behavior indicators for abuse. But-"

Beckett took a breath, finally, her hand fisting on her phone. _But_ her heart was beating wildly.

"But," Foster gave them both a fuller smile, "he did very good seeking help. And you did exactly right, Detective, bringing him here. With your input, and yours too, Rick, we can get you back on track in six weeks."

Six weeks.

"Concurrently, I'd like to refer you to a friend of mine who deals with GSWs. I want him to take some X-rays and see what he thinks might be done about that fragment. He's very good; it's possible we can excise that little guy. If so, we won't have to worry about long-term pain management. It becomes short-term and that's a good deal more manageable, I think."

Beckett released her breath, feeling curiously lighter, freer somehow. Foster knew her stuff; the woman was going to help them. Castle was getting help.

But when she turned to look at Castle, his face was washed in shame.

She reached out and quickly took his hand, squeezing hard enough to force his eyes up to her.

 _I love you_ , she mouthed, squeezing his hand three times, one for every word she meant.

She'd done it in the hospital when he was unconscious, and something of that must have still remained, because his eyes cleared and his shoulders came up.

Beckett nodded and turned back to Foster who was sitting expectantly, calmly before them. "Tell me the plan. I'll be with him. I can do whatever needs to be done."

 **X**


	8. Chapter 8

**Path to Paradise**

* * *

 **X**

Beckett really - _really_ \- could have used Castle here today.

Esposito kept throwing her dark looks across the bullpen, and she knew she was jumpy, but having a sniper terrorizing the city would do that to a woman whose boyfriend had been shot in her place. Especially when she'd moved in with said boyfriend and now was attempting to console _two_ of them over the relative merits of her safety in a crowd of police officers.

Not that she wasn't running to her therapist's office every morning after a quick coffee with Castle, not that she didn't find her heart fluttering and her throat closing up whenever they were called to a fresh scene.

Not that she wasn't killing herself to solve this case.

But she had to admit that the Twelfth Precinct wasn't the ideal place for him right now. And Beckett herself wasn't the ideal partner for him either. Though she missed his coffee fiercely.

So when she saw her father's ID on her phone, Beckett jumped to her feet with that peculiar feeling of dread now long associated with Jim's reaching out to her first. She knew it was irrational, _thank you, therapy_ , but with everything that had been going on in her life, it didn't really feel all that irrational.

It felt like bracing herself for impact.

Beckett scuttled for the break room and pushed her body into the corner space by the vending machine, pressing her head to the wall as she closed her eyes and answered. "Hello, Dad?"

"I know you're at work," he began, no preamble but a kind of strange excitement in his voice. "But I was talking to Rick the other day and it got me thinking-"

"Wait. What?" She wasn't certain her father had ever formally _met_ Castle. Other than a few visits in a hospital when the writer had been unconscious.

"How about the two of you take a long weekend, a few days on either side, and use the cabin?"

"Dad," she said, trying to stem the veritable flood of planning her father apparently had been doing. "What's this about? The cabin?"

"Thanksgiving is coming up soon, and I know you're in the middle of this - the gunman out there. I've been watching the news. And even though I find myself sitting by the phone waiting on that call, I bet it's worse for Rick. Not being able to be there."

"Gates won't let him back in until he's cleared," she murmured. He had a _department_ psychologist, assigned by 1PP, and if that didn't tell her something about how serious this was- "Dad, when did you talk to Castle?"

"Oh, couple weeks ago, honey, met for lunch. That's not important here. I wanted to offer you the cabin, because I know you, and I'm pretty sure you won't take a break unless you're forced."

"Dad, I'm in the middle of a case," she gritted out. "And since you said you've been watching the news, you know I don't have time."

"When it's done, Katie. All I'm saying. When it's done, you take Rick and you get out of here."

"Dad," she said tightly, her mind racing. _When_ had Castle met up with her father? "What have you and Castle been talking about?"

"Oh, honey," he chuckled. "Don't worry, nothing too bad. Just that time when you were six and you took off your shirt and said you were playing baseball the same as the boys."

" _Dad_ ," she growled.

"Rick really liked that one."

"When did you guys - I never even introduced you." She felt strangely stolen from, the fact that she hadn't been given the chance to tease Castle with the prospect of meeting her dad, have her dad tease _her_ with all the stories he'd apparently already told.

"Before all of this, I showed up at his apartment and asked him to look out for you."

"What?" she gasped, jerking upright and smacking her elbow into the vending machine. "Dad. Why did you-"

"I could tell he cared for you, sticking around like had for so long. And the way you talked about him. I figured if someone could stop you - it'd be him. And then he got shot. I've - ah - felt rather guilty over that. Found myself eager to get together when he called me."

Kate slumped back to the wall, her heart thundering. "You didn't - it wasn't your fault. Nothing you did."

"I basically charged him with the task of throwing himself in front of a bullet."

"Dad," she sighed. "As Castle has told me numerous times now - he was only trying to knock me down. He never intended to _take_ a bullet."

"And as you and I both know, doesn't change a thing."

No. It didn't.

"So take your hero to the woods, Katie. Give him a chance. He deserves it."

"A chance?" she cried out, indignant. "Dad, I _moved in_ with him."

"You moved in with him?" A grumble in her father's throat that had her shoulders coming up. "Why am I only hearing about this now?"

"Well, I don't know, Dad," she drawled, "since the two of you are apparently so close." Castle had called _him_ , not the other way around this time.

"Don't be pert," he said easily. "I'll swing by your - well, _his_ place, won't I? - today and drop off the keys. You know how to start the generator?"

"Yes. But Dad-"

"No buts, young lady. Give Rick a chance."

What _chance_? Wait. A couple weeks ago? That had been the day Castle had come back to the loft in a suit.

"Dad," she said sharply. "What's going on?"

But her father had already hung up.

Or quite conveniently, he had hung up and quit the witness's stand the moment she'd hit on this very interesting line of questioning.

"Rick Castle," she muttered. "What the hell did you do?"

 **X**


	9. Chapter 9

**Path to Paradise**

* * *

 **X**

He had dropped clues right and left.

Of course, Castle hadn't wanted to be _obvious_ about it, no. That would never do. She was a detective; she prided herself on her observational skills, but more than that, she enjoyed the thrill of a good mystery.

He hadn't made it easy. Of course not. But after a week, she'd been entirely clue _less_. Showering in the morning, moving quietly through his bedroom to get dressed, waking him before she left with a cup of coffee and his pain pills.

Clueless. Still pulling clothes out of her suitcase. Still wiping down her shampoo and body wash and conditioner after every shower and tucking them back into her travel kit. Still texting him in the afternoon as if in warning, _headed your way unless-_

There would never be an _unless_.

He started dropping bigger clues. A receipt for the cab underneath the change on his dresser, pulled out of his pocket and left there with his chapstick and handkerchief. He thought she had seen it the day before, a glance of her eyes and the reflexive curiosity. And then later, the unnaturally turquoise gift bag not quite making it to the trash can and lying on the floor by the coffee maker. The little shopping bag had been gone the next morning, so someone had noticed it, but for the life of him, Castle hadn't found it in any of the trash cans.

He'd even 'hidden' his gift in its telltale blue Tiffany's box in the closet between his carefully folded sweaters. One of which he knew was her favorite on him. He had even _seen_ her fingers trail across it on her way to one of his plaid shirts last weekend. (She really loved his plaid. He loved her in it. He made excuses to take her clothes off and hide them so that she was forced to go scrounging in his closet for one of those plaids.)

Finally, this morning, he began rearranging his closet before she had even left for work. Had to be obvious now, right? It wasn't subtle, which he usually liked much better, but he was down to measures of last resort. He was placing huge piles of his clothing into plastic storage containers. He was putting his quality threads in _plastic_ , and this morning had she not even noticed?

Ow. His shoulders ached. That spot at his neck. The pain was building in tight knots across his back. Enough for today. It was mainly supposed to be a gesture.

He'd get a pain pill when she sneaked out of work to meet him for lunch, but that was another two hours away.

He checked his phone anyway.

Two hours. Right. He could make it. The therapist he'd been seeing, Dr Burke (he was a _police department_ shrink; he was _official_ ), had told him that a good deal of the craving was in his head, and not, he'd said, in his body chemistry. The bloodwork had proved it.

But Castle had found it was difficult to distinguish the two. Head felt like body, while his heart cringed at the ugliness of it all. And when he'd found himself having two or three single malts, barely feeling it, trying to relax his knotted muscles, he had broken down and called her dad.

Pathetic, yes, but he hadn't known what to do.

His talk with Jim Beckett had actually been the linchpin for his getting help, asking for help. He'd felt it coming over him like a funeral shroud, felt himself obscured by the pain/pill/Scotch combination, a one-two- _three_ punch, but his fears had been allayed by Kate's father.

 _Kate has taken her stand. She won't back down now, Rick. Me, of all people; I should know._

Back tight down to his hips, shoulders hunched near his ears, Castle was just re-convincing himself of that certainty, that total assurance, when the key turned in the lock.

He grunted with frustration, only half finished with his project (next, he had hoped to clear space in his dresser, pointedly take out the things she kept in that jewelry roll in her travel kit, the silk thing with the Chinese characters and soft tassels, and put all of it in the elephant dish he had bought solely for this 'clue-planting' expedition of his).

"Alexis," he shouted towards the living room. "I've got boxes for the storage room in the basement. Do you know where the key is? I think your grandmother had it last."

Martha had been squirreling away stage props again. Space was at a premium in New York City and their assigned storage unit below was the size of a coffin, so he'd be clearing out her junk before he could get this stuff inside. Basically only the Christmas decor fit-

"Boxes for the storage room, hm, Castle?"

He gasped, hearing his own melodramatic self and yet unable to _help_ it, since it was Kate Beckett striding into his bedroom. In those power heels. Sinfully tight black trousers. Blazer. And best of all, a starched white dress shirt with a high collar that only made him think about unbuttoning every single tiny pearl button and pressing his mouth to the skin he revealed.

"Don't think I haven't figured out what you're doing, Castle."

He gave her a look of complete innocence (ruined only somewhat by the lustful thoughts burning in his mind's eye), but she abandoned her questioning and switched to a new tack.

"I have a surprise for you too, you know."

Surprise, _too_. She knew. She'd found it. She knew. He'd given her just enough time to get her game face on, for her to withdraw to her fortress of solitude and decide what she wanted for herself, and yet he hadn't even _noticed_ it when it had been happening.

She'd been at _his_ place every night for weeks. He had really expected at least two or three days of going it alone while she made her choice.

"You have a surprise?" he said, struggling to rise. "For me?"

"Mm-hm." She reached out and took his hand in both of hers, hauled him to his feet. He came stumbling into her body and she braced him, kissed his cheek with a hand against the side of his face, as if she wanted to cradle him.

"What surprise, Kate?" He felt giddiness moving through him in quivering waves. Could be the bullet fragment, could be her nearness.

"I got a consult with a surgeon. Faxed him your x-rays. Went today, we had a good talk about managing expectations, but. He said yes."

 _He said yes._ So close to what _he_ wanted said, that it nearly sent him to his knees. "Who said yes? Yes to what?"

"He thinks he can do the surgery, babe. He _knows_ he can do the surgery. Remove the bullet fragment. Actually, he saw two fragments, one the other guys didn't pick up on. Small. And what he said looked like bone chips at your clavicle, here."

He hissed when she touched him, pressing into his skin. She flinched and pulled back, a rough _sorry, are you okay_ that they both ignored. He realized he had a hand gripped too tightly around her bicep and he loosened his fingers, felt her breath of relief.

"Dr. Wayte wants to do a pre-op interview with you tomorrow at three. And he's tentatively scheduled a surgery slot for the day after Christmas."

"That fast," he mumbled, feeling cut loose. The pain had its teeth in his neck, his shoulders were hunched. The tightness ached clear down his back.

Kate stroked her fingers at his nape, dug her thumb into the splenius cervicis muscle - that knotted cord that ran alongside his spine. He knew the names of all of those muscles now, knew them from physical therapy, massage therapy, ultrasound therapy... all the therapies that worked for an hour, half a day, and then had to be undergone all over again just to have any relief.

"That fast," she whispered. "I hope. Does it hurt?"

"Yeah," he said tightly. Her knuckle dug deeper and something released just under his shoulder blade. "Ah, that's - that's it."

"Are you okay with tomorrow at three?"

"More than okay," he mumbled. His head felt heavy; he wanted to lean against her but he thought that would be a bad idea.

Still, her hand pressed to the small of his back and drew him in, massaging his neck. He let his forehead fall against hers.

"There's one more surprise," she hummed, "if you can stand it."

He chuckled, worked his neck in small increments under the pressure of her thumb. "Hit me with your best shot."

"Still not funny, Castle."

"Is a little bit," he whispered, but he kissed her eyelid in apology.

She hummed in acceptance. "After the surgery," she said, "we'll stay at my Dad's cabin. It was his idea, actually. So I took a week, and Gates is being kind enough to let me count it against next year's vacation."

"Oh," he breathed. "Gates. Wow."

"Yeah," she laughed softly. "No kidding."

And then the rest of her words cleared the gauntlet-run of his wrecked body, and he lifted his head. "Your dad?" he croaked.

"He called me," she drawled. Knowledge in her eyes.

Oh. Oh, she _had_ to know. "He called you, huh?"

"Said he had a great time at your _lunch_ , Castle."

"Oh," he beamed, grinning widely. "Me too!"

She laughed at that, shaking her head at him, but she had to know. She had to have put it all together, otherwise she wouldn't have brought it up.

And still, here she was, easing his pain with the brutal grind of her knuckles in his neck and keeping him on his feet through it all.

She had taken her stand.

 **X**


	10. Final

**Path to Paradise**

* * *

 **X**

Castle seemed to wake from surgery all at once, and Beckett lifted to her feet and leaned in over him, watching the awareness come to life in his eyes. He smiled at her, groggy, goofy, and she couldn't help smiling back, her fingers on his shoulder and stroking lightly.

"They've got you on your stomach, keeping pressure off the incision site," she murmured. Certain he wouldn't remember, but maybe he'd hold it for a moment and feel like everything was fine. "It went well, Rick. Dr. Wayte said he got everything."

Castle hummed, eyes falling closed again, like his lids were weighted. She didn't mind. It would be a while, she knew that much.

Beckett placed a soft kiss against his temple, brushing back the limp hair that hung over his eyes. He needed a haircut. And his nails trimmed. And the scruff, though that was a little cute. He was a big bear, muzzy from hibernation.

"You can sleep. I'll be here," she told him.

But he made a valiant effort to open his eyes and one of his fingers curled into his palm, so she took his hand. Squeezed to let him know she had him. Castle traced her motion with his gaze, as if he was trying to comprehend her.

She sank back to the chair beside his hospital bed, but she propped her elbows on his mattress and came in close. Her fingers combed through his hair, over and over, and yet Castle worked his throat like he was trying to say something, stay with her.

His arm was bent, his hand up near his shoulder - the surgeon had been so careful about the nerves and muscles in his back, the places where they connected to his shoulders, his arms. She squeezed that hand and his chin nudged on top of her knuckles.

"I bought you a ring," he mumbled.

"I know." She rubbed her thumb against his chin, his jaw. "You left the Tiffany's box hiding in plain sight, babe."

He stirred and opened his eyes, but she didn't think he was with her. Not really. Sleepy blinks, his face slack. "Not a latchkey anymore."

"I don't know what that means," she whispered.

"S'okay. I do."

She laughed softly, rubbed her thumb against his bottom lip. "So long as you do," she promised. "All that really matters."

"Cabin?"

"When you've been cleared," she reminded him. "Anesthesia wears off, then we're good to go."

"Is that a yes?"

She supposed that she knew exactly what he was asking. "You're supposed to do it right, Rick Castle."

He whined something in his throat and she leaned in and kissed the corner of his eye where the crow's feet made little happy creases.

"You know what the answer will be," she murmured. "You just need to wait and make it a good story."

When she pulled back, she thought maybe he'd already fallen back to sleep.

 **X**

Castle carefully rolled his head on his neck, lifted his shoulders up and down to test them out. Not too bad. He was still shying away from the medication, but she had made him take one every night since the surgery and the pain was managed. Being managed.

He saw the sun angling through the cabin's picture window. The burnished gold and red of near sunset in the winter. Time to find Beckett.

He shifted forward on the edge of the couch and stood slowly, pleased when his limbs obeyed and his strength didn't fail him. He'd had the gift box under the pillow on the couch with him, and now he stooped to withdraw it, rubbing his thumb over the box. He'd meant to give it to her after lunch, but he'd fallen asleep.

No time like the present. (Pun intended).

Castle shoved the box into the pocket of his loose sweatpants and started forward. He shuffled through the living room, still wrapped in some of that post-nap gauze, muffled, but he attained the hall that led to the back sunroom and stepped over the threshold.

Kate turned her head on the chaise lounge and saw him, smiled that fleeting but real smile she had for him these days. "Good nap, babe?"

"Didn't mean to, but yeah. Feel better now."

She lifted one lazy arm from the chaise and held out her hand to him, wriggled her fingers in invitation. Castle came as gracefully as he could manage, wanting to show her he wasn't in an altered state. Drugs or pain, neither one.

She scooted to one side for him, and he sat at her hip, stroking the rise of her pelvis under the thin t-shirt. "Is this mine?"

"Was yours."

Emphasis on was, and he heard it. He shook his head. "Losing t-shirts faster than I can buy them, and that's saying something, considering my online shopping expenses."

She chuckled, but she sounded uninterested, or distracted, and he knew she liked this time of afternoon best, half-asleep on the lounge with a book and the sun coming through the glass overhead. The snow had begun in earnest yesterday, but inside the sunroom, it was warm and cozy, and the view was a perfect landscape of glittering frost. He glanced up through the thick glass, watching the clouds that morphed into shapes - a dragon, a dog, now a seahorse - as the wind played, unseen, unfelt from here.

"Never mind the shirt," he said. "Got something else for you."

Kate came alive then, turning into him and cuddling at his hip, her arm wound around his thigh. "You do, huh?"

"You know I do."

"You better not be making some kind of crude joke about having something for me."

He chuckled and combed his fingers through her hair, displeased with the fumble, the faint tingling. Hadn't quite regained the feeling in this hand, but she hadn't complained. Only traced her fingers over his knuckles until the sensation made him shiver. She did it now, dragging his hand down around her neck to play with his fingers.

"Not a joke," he said finally. "But maybe more than you're expecting."

"You know you spilled the beans after surgery," she murmured, as if to soften the blow. A brush of a kiss on his knuckles. "Post-op haze."

"I did?"

"Mm-hm." Kate lifted, leaning against his side now, sitting upright though still twined like a cat around him. "You said you got me a ring."

He startled, a moment's panic flickering through him, and Kate sat up straight, hearing it in his pounding heart maybe, or his ragged breath, and she stared at him, just as speechless.

Castle opened his mouth, closed it, tried to think.

"You didn't get me a ring?" she blurted out.

"I..."

Her cheeks flushed but she frowned, coming up on her knees and readjusting her position, sitting across from him now. "You didn't buy me a ring, but you said you did?"

"Well, I did... in a manner of speaking."

"In a manner of speaking?" she echoed, something sharp in her voice.

Was he in trouble? He might be in trouble. "I thought it would be - cute. I - um - let me just give you your present and then we'll see where we are." Castle pulled the box from his pocket, but the corner caught the edge of material and it made him fumble. He was all thumbs these days and his fingers were botching the job.

But she caught it, a fast look up at him until he nodded, and then she tugged apart the white (only a little crumpled) bow. When she thumbed off the lid of the Tiffany's blue box, Kate actually laughed.

He let out a breath. It couldn't be that bad if she thought this was amusing.

"A keyring," she said, nodding her head. Her cheeks were pink but her lips were turning up. "That makes a lot more sense, actually."

"It does?" he asked. He realized he felt a little crestfallen at the way she had said it made _sense_. Made sense that it was a keyring and not a diamond ring.

"You said I wouldn't be latchkey any longer. I guess you're tired of the loft key hanging around my neck like an albatross, right beside my mother's ring."

A ring. Damn. "I'll buy you a diamond solitaire next, not just a diamond keyring."

"Not the point, Castle," she said softly. "I love this. Besides. First things first."

"Well, the point is that we haven't done first things first," he muttered. He reached out and brushed back her hair. "Have we? You've moved in, Kate. And it's only right that I get the chance to actually ask you to."

"You don't have to ask," she said, shoulders shrugging. Her finger pushed through the ring of the simple titanium band, the diamond charm flopping back and forth over her knuckle. It could have been a ring. It cost enough to have been a ring.

Maybe it should have been a ring.

But he'd thought a permanent _will you move in with me_ was taking a pretty big step for them.

"This is my way of asking anyway," he said quietly. "Telling you I want you there, in my loft, and not just because I need someone to keep me away from the pain pills. If you'll stay, that is."

She lifted her head and touched her lips to his, a brief and almost chaste kiss. "You know I want to stay. Just a matter of packing boxes. And you haven't needed a jail keeper, Castle. Just a partner."

He tilted his head forward, their foreheads bumping, a strange relief spilling through him. "A partner, then," he echoed.

"You know," she murmured. Her fingers came up and touched his cheek, and the metal from the keyring was warm where she'd been holding it. "I've been gearing myself up for this box from Tiffany's since you started dropping clues all around the loft. Asking myself what I'd do, say, what my answer would be. Just in case you're wondering."

"Wondering?" he croaked. His heart beat a little fast at the idea of Kate herself _wondering_.

"In case you need a little... nudge."

He let out a noise somewhere between a war cry and a groan, and he wrapped his arms around her, dragged her into his lap. He might be crushing her, but his joy was crushing _him_. "I'm warning you now, Beckett, I won't be able to wait until Valentine's Day. Might not even be able to wait until we get back to the city."

She was grinning against his smile, and her kiss was no longer chaste _or_ sweet. Intense. Hot. Somehow desperate.

He was getting her a ring _yesterday._

 **X**


End file.
